


Tight-Lipped

by Sonzaishinai



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Injustice: Gods Among Us, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alfred and Dick are still dead, Angst, Dark, Dickhead Kal, Emotional Abuse maybe, Evil Superman, Hanahaki Disease, I dont know where ill be going w this honestly, I think this will be my last fic before I start a hiatus, Injustice Superman - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Tags will be updated accordingly, slow burn??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 23:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonzaishinai/pseuds/Sonzaishinai
Summary: The day that the Joker struck, Bruce experienced the worst variant of relief that he'd ever gotten the guilt of experiencing.





	Tight-Lipped

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i can't let you go but i need to (i'll bleed if i have to)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13289148) by [knoxoursavior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior). 
  * Inspired by [Helianthus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13843362) by [timetravelingsherlockian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetravelingsherlockian/pseuds/timetravelingsherlockian). 



> This might be the last fic or update I post before I go on Hiatus cuz of school. I just rlly wanted to get this specific idea out so I wrote it while I could. I will try to update all my fics as best as I possibly can, but I can't guarantee I won't be gone for a long ass time. If I make it into track, my time's gonna be especially thin. I fear for my sleep schedule, as I am slowly but steadily waking up naturally with less and less time asleep; went from eight hours to seven and now to six. 
> 
> If I do continue this fic, btw, I have no idea where I'll go with it, as is the same with other fics. Actually, that's a lie. I have ideas for how I want a specific fic or two to go, but they're very vague and time consuming. Only time will tell if I am to update with a solid plot in mind.
> 
> Also another thing, this was inspired heavily by the two mentioned fics above, "I can't let you go but I need to (I'll bleed if I have to)" and "Helianthus", both of which are INCREDIBLE pieces of work, and if you haven't read em already, I highly recommend you do. This was a concept I'd never been introduced until I read them months ago, and I simply wanted to add an angstier twist on the idea; Injustice

Bruce would be lying if he claimed that he didn’t know when it started. He knew full when it began. He knew full well  _ why  _ it started and every recollection of the cold Gotham night surrounded in its splendor sent an accursed pang to his heart. Clark, in all his glory, descending from the sky, hands trembling with excitement and nervousness in a way he never had before. The black of his pupils, expanded, as though radiating with love.

Bruce knew, then. 

 

He knew without being told, that Lois was pregnant.

 

It had taken him all his strength to remain composed. To keep his voice from trembling as he told of all the telltale signs. To… to tell Clark that he was happy for him, the neutral inflection that’d normally worry Clark going unnoticed.

 

The next morning, once he’d gotten home from patrol, he felt the first signs of something off- the uncomfortable poking sensation at the back of his throat that caused gagging to ensue. 

 

Before long, he was doubled over in front of his computer, spitting out a thick wad of yellow petals blotted with blood and saliva. 

 

Later, he would find out that the flower signified neglected love; ironic.

 

He never told Alfred about it.

 

He doesn’t know what compelled him to visit Poison Ivy of all the people.

 

He doesn’t want to know why he went as Bruce Wayne.

 

What he does want to know is why her normally venomous, seductive nature turned sorrowful and pitying at his proclamation of his symptoms. Why with the petals cleaned and held carefully between her soft palms, she delivered a dry kiss to his lips, and he was sent hurling against the ground, more petals slipping between his lips as he heaved.

 

When he turned back up to the villain, she only looked at him softly, regretful knowing in her eyes that he’d never get to see directed at Batman. 

 

That night, he left her greenhouse more puzzled than ever, her soft touch clearly heavied with a burden, and only two words to him and a silent offer of invitation; Hanahaki Disease.

 

His own research told the rest. A disease nighs incurable and originating from one-sided love… to attempt a cure meant to rid the victim’s of their feelings, though, and that early morning, Bruce never fell asleep, faced with the very real manifestation of his feelings for his colleague, and the possibility of his death if he were to go about continuing to ignore them.

 

To anyone else, the choice may have been simple. On one hand, choose to die and pass down your lifetime dedication if you either avoided confessing or were rejected. On the other, continue living through surgical removal of the embedded roots, devoid of your previously romantic feelings for your beloved. Any logical person would choose to live, even if it meant to be separated from the fire that was love.

 

For the suffering, though, that’s all it was. Love was a fire; a fire that blinds those who it spreads to and deprives them of seeing rationally. An unseen fire, unfortunately, that ensures one won’t call for help until it’s too late, and maybe even then, they’d go unheard due to the roar of the flames, brilliant and deadly.

 

Head shielded with his soft pillow, tear-stained covers hidden to the prying eyes of his butler, Bruce said his silent sorries, resigned to his fate.

 

Then the Joker struck, and it was perhaps the worst relief he’d ever had the guilt of experiencing.

 

His… former best friend went about from then onwards. The same face. The same body. The same voice.

 

Not the same person, though. Never was again, his eyes clouding the bright joy and love they always held with grief, sorrow, and sheer, unadulterated hatred. Hatred at the world, hatred towards criminals, but most hurtful of all, hatred towards him. Bruce.

 

It was the same being as ever, but Bruce’s body recognized that Clark had died that day.

 

The disease never got worse as they were professed to do.

 

It didn’t go away, though, with two to five occasions throughout the day where he’d cough up flower petals. Bruce’s love was undying, and though he could never bring a confession to the stranger in his best friend’s body, his heart still ached for the dead and buried part of him. 

 

It wouldn’t go away for as long as he lived, lest he seeks surgical treatment.

 

Except Bruce feared that if he got rid of it with such, he’d allow Kal to face death. So he didn’t seek it. He didn’t look to remove the hindrance that was the flower deeply rooted into his lungs.

 

Some days, a little part of him even whispered softly into his ear that perhaps he didn’t want them gone either; they were a reminder he who held his love. The last thing he had of and the last thing that’d be able to remind him of the man. Even after Dick’s death, Damian’s betrayal, Alfred’s death. Even after all of them, Bruce refused to get the flowers removed because maybe, just maybe, a part of him whispered, it was the last proof of Clark’s humanity before everything went to hell.

 

When things got bad, and he was coughing up more petals after remembering the past, another, more minuscule portion of him told of the dark desire for death. The hope that he’d succumb to another force of nature that’d leave him dead so he’d never have to let loose his secret. The mornings following, he was more sluggish, lethargic, even. Like he was slowing down just so he could get by on being assassinated. 

 

Some mornings that happened, Harley was around, and she’d always look at him knowingly, looking at him sadly but never able to muster the courage to approach the subject.

 

When she moped about behind him like that, Bruce felt stronger than ever, the pang of disappointment, as if he’d failed the Insurgency as their leader. 

 

The bottles of wine hidden in the manor, typically out of sight, would usually accompany him when that occurred.

 

More so, they accompanied him in the nights following visits to Cl- Kal in the red sun prison. Shot after shot until he’d downed the whole bottle and then another one, and the next morning he’d be up with a throbbing headache, usually on the floor or something of the likes, before he’d be laughing at himself, practically spitting with self-hatred. 

 

“Mother and Father would sure be proud to see how I’ve turned out,” he says sometimes, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

 

One day he woke up buckled into the seat of one of his cars, and he was swelling with fear at what could have happened if he’d gone driving whilst drunk, Alfred no longer around to dictate his actions.

 

A dark part of his head shrouded in grief whispered that he’d get to see his parents again is what’d happen. That he’d get to reunite with his Clark, and seconds later, a wad of petals would be heaved up harshly, Bruce’s throat burning with the effort.

 

After that, he put a stop to the drinking, ignoring the itch for a drink he’d get when he carried on with the same heavy, mournful habits. 

 

So he doesn’t know why one particular night  the anniversary of his parents’ deaths he was especially craving a drink, nor why he surrendered to the urge, hands reaching into a cabinet and taking out one bottle, later two.

 

When he woke up with the worst hangover he’d ever had, there was a prickling fear in the back of his mind, like he’d forgotten something. Something that his mind didn’t care to acknowledge while he vomited into the toilet, hands grasping at the edge of the seat while the contents of his stomach and flower petals alike were mixing into the bowl. He flushed the toilet and, ashamed, he went back to the library to clean up the mess he’d made, heart heavy with the reminder of Alfred.

 

When he was done, the two bottles disposed of and the glasses washed, he went back into right what he’d scattered, freezing halfway through.

 

On the reading table was his laptop. Open, yes, but without any indications of use. Beside it, what he’d initially thought was a big, bloodied wad of petals seemed to be a bloom- no, two; a fully formed yellow chrysanthemum and another one that was a deep red, bright and accusing under the sunlight that wafted into the library via the windows.

 

Shaking, he had stuffed that into the garbage with the rest of the messied  love letters papers around where he’d woken up, his headache abating with reluctance.

 

Besides Poison Ivy, who was god knew where on Earth, probably unsympathetic for Bruce’s condition if she even knew his current state, no one else had an idea of what Bruce was suffering from.

 

He went about with the remainder of his day, then, that assurance in mind as he routinely cleaned up the manor in place of Alfred.

 

At about 6 PM, when the skies began to darken, he discovered that the manor was devoid of electricity; no biggie. It was likely a simple blackout, and though he could use a generator, he found it too bothersome to go out and turn it on. Thus, he settled for the night, bringing up a candle and a book with him to his bedroom to read until he fell asleep.

 

In the end, no one ever really managed to contact the Bat, and the Bat never got word from the panicked government officials who still refrained to inform the public of their internal ongoings.

 

It was sad how easily things turned out his way, too. Without the manor security enabled, Bruce never did catch sight of the capeless figure floating out above Wayne Manor who’d been watching his every move from when he was passed out drunk up until he dozed off, the book still in hand and candlelight pathetically illuminating the vast room of the sorrowfully empty home.

**Author's Note:**

> This might be the last fic or update I post before I go on Hiatus cuz of school. I just rlly wanted to get this specific idea out so I wrote it while I could. I will try to update all my fics as best as I possibly can, but I can't guarantee I won't be gone for a long ass time. If I make it into track, my time's gonna be especially thin. I fear for my sleep schedule, as I am slowly but steadily waking up naturally with less and less time asleep; went from eight hours to seven and now to six. 
> 
> If I do continue this fic, btw, I have no idea where I'll go with it, as is the same with other fics. Actually, that's a lie. I have ideas for how I want a specific fic or two to go, but they're very vague and time consuming. Only time will tell if I am to update with a solid plot in mind.
> 
> Also another thing, this was inspired heavily by the two mentioned fics above, "I can't let you go but I need to (I'll bleed if I have to)" and "Helianthus", both of which are INCREDIBLE pieces of work, and if you haven't read em already, I highly recommend you do. This was a concept I'd never been introduced until I read them months ago, and I simply wanted to add an angstier twist on the idea; Injustice


End file.
